


It's All Fine In The End

by alexabarton



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Contest Entry, First Kiss, First Meetings, Grief/Mourning, Kid Sherlock, M/M, Rare Pairings, Teenlock, Tumblr: fuckyeahteenlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-24
Updated: 2015-03-24
Packaged: 2018-03-19 10:45:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3607254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexabarton/pseuds/alexabarton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or how John and Mycroft almost had a 'thing' but not quite....</p>
<p>Entry for the fuckyeahteenlock rare pair competition.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's All Fine In The End

 

 

It was raining, hard. What started as a haze of mist in the air now poured down insistently in harsh stinging drops, much too fast for the ancient drains to cope. Mycroft huffed, and stepped gingerly around a murky brown stream while Sherlock splashed straight through, head raised up to sky and tongue hanging out to taste it.

The vicar shook hands, stoic and patient beyond the call of duty as the mourners, minds now turned to wine and beer and canapes, hurried to the waiting cars. Uncle Rudy leaned over and tapped him on the arm. He smiled and offered Mycroft a large black umbrella.

“Better take this old pal, mummy asked if you could just keep Sherlock out of the way for a while”.

Mycroft nodded, understanding. A wake was not the place for a hyperactive eight year old, who had never understood the concept of self-restraint. No, that was unfair, Mycroft thought. His brother understood it perfectly well, he just didn’t believe such nonsense applied to him at his tender age, and Sherlock was most likely right, as he was about most things, annoyingly.

For instance, Mycroft groaned, as Sherlock raced on ahead over the grass between the gravestones feet sliding in the soft new-turned earth, splatters of mud and mown grass adhering to the bottom of his brand new suit. He proceeded to climb up the nearest tree, an ancient oak with low, gnarled branches near the bottom, just beckoning out to young adventurers to clamber within.

Mycroft cursed his innate sense of propriety which had closed such doors for him at least. Besides, he was now the man of the house and needed to act accordingly, the weight of expectation hanging heavy on sixteen year old shoulders.

“Should he be doing that?”

“I expect not….’no’ is an alien concept to him I’m afraid”.

Mycroft blinked against the rain and raised the umbrella to block out the worst of it. Now he could see just whom he had spoken to. A short blond-haired boy his own age or perhaps a bit younger, in a washed out denim jacket and jeans, the collar turned up against the onslaught. Mycroft wondered why he’d bothered, the thin material already turned dark and the clothes underneath likely soaking wet too. He looked bone-cold and tired, dark rings framing dark-blue eyes, full lips chapped and bitten with worry and red-rimmed eyes. He stood in front of a recently dug grave, a black granite headstone that jutted from the barely recovered earth. Expensive, in stark contrast to the boy’s shabby shoes and clothes, expected then, planned for, a long illness terminal perhaps with enough foresight not to leave any dependents financially insecure.

It read:

_David Watson_

_(1948)-(1987)_

_Beloved Husband and Father_

_Always In Our Hearts._

“I’m sorry for your loss”, he said awkwardly, aware that he had likely intruded upon something innately private.

“You too”, the boy acknowledged, nodding his head towards the ever efficient ground-staff, industriously re-interring the mounds of ploughed earth on top of the earthly remains of his late father. “Although, you don’t have to be…sorry that is…he was a fucking bastard”.

The boy kicked a stone from the path with precision, smacking off the front of the headstone to leave a tiny brown scratch right on the word ‘Beloved’. Mycroft was shocked and a little confused, not a feeling he was accustomed too and did the only thing he could when faced with a puzzle he just couldn’t solve, rare though that was, ignore it and change the subject.

“I need to keep an eye on my brother”, he stuttered, glancing to where Sherlock stood, perched in the lower branches, dress shoes sliding on the slimy wet bark.

The little idiot.

Mycroft foresaw ambulances and an A&E waiting room in his immediate future if he didn’t get him down.

Sherlock had climbed a little too high and a pale worried face peered out from the bows, a stick in hand, brandished like a pirate sword in his small clenched fist.

“Yeah, and that’s a full time job I imagine…and believe me mate I know the feeling”.

“Mycroft…my feet keep slipping and I don’t know how to get down”, Sherlock whined his usual cheeky bravado gone.

“Sister…she’s twelve”, the boy called over his shoulder by way of explanation as he bounded across the grass in battered black trainers and positioned himself under the overhanging branch.

“Wait”, Mycroft called, “You don’t have to…you see he’s rather like a cat…usually if you wait a while he’ll find a way down himself”.

The boy laughed, “Yeah well _Mycroft_ , I don’t really think we should take that chance….do you?...and by the way, the name’s John…just in case you’d like to thank the bloke who’s saving your kid brother’s arse”.

And just as he spoke a low ominous rumble sounded in the distance.

Bugger.

Thunder.

“Perhaps not”.

He hovered awkwardly on the pathway at first, then huffed in annoyance, picking his way between the graves over the sodden, filthy ground.

“Avast me hearty and shiver me timbers and whatever the hell else you’re supposed to say…anyway dread pirate, time to abandon ship before all hands are lost…there’s a mighty storm brewing and we need to head for port”, John said, in a very silly put-on pirate voice.

“What are you on about?…you are such an idiot!”, Sherlock squawked in delight at the prospect of an eager new playmate as he crouched down low and straddled the bow, inching his way across until he hovered just above the boy. Mycroft squeezed his eyes shut, not wanting to look, but mildly impressed all the same. Sherlock never took to anyone, the world as he saw it populated by morons, he and mummy and Redbeard excepted, and now apparently, John.

“It’s okay Mycroft you can look now”, Sherlock called, and there he was, safe and triumphant, brandishing his stick-sword as John walked back towards him, the wet, muddy urchin sitting proudly on top of his shoulders.

Just as they made it safely back to hard ground a bright flash of lightening ripped across the sky, followed by a second rumble, much louder this time.

“We could go somewhere”, John blurted suddenly as the rain picked that moment to double the onslaught “that is…if you want”.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at that and wondered if John knew quite how suggestive it sounded. Or perhaps that was just him, reading too much into the kindness of strangers, when clearly all that was meant was to shelter somewhere until the worst of the storm had passed. He nodded, as John hunkered down and gently deposited Sherlock on the ground, ignoring his whining protests.

“Coffee?” Mycroft asked, wondering what the hell he was doing, to even consider wandering the streets of London in the rain with a complete stranger on today of all days. Well, they had requested he keep Sherlock occupied and nothing untoward was likely to happen, not with certain…encumbrances… in tow.

“How fresh?” said Sherlock, the aforementioned millstone, his attention arrested by another new adventure peering upside down between his legs as he stood by John’s father’s grave, with a tiny ice-cream spatula and an empty miniature marmalade jar that he’d had secreted god knows where. He was soaking, dark curls plastered to his dirty brow.

Right, that was it, Mycroft thought, as he stared in dismay, they were leaving now before his brother could cause any further humiliation.

“Have at it kid”, said John, completely unconcerned “Might as well be useful now he’s dead, cause he was a useless piece of shit when he was alive…”, he turned to Mycroft, “Coffee you said?”, he cocked his head to the side, “Christ, either I’ve got this wrong or that sort of sounds like a date”.

Who needed Sherlock, Mycroft groaned, when he could accomplish it so supremely well on his own.

He smiled a little uncertainly in return, “Perhaps it does”.

“John!...Are you done now John? ….Come on!”, a female voice cut through the downpour, and Mycroft pivoted around on his heel at the sound, a woman, John’s mother he presumed, had parked in the circular driveway as close to the path as she could get without mounting the kerb.

John shrugged his shoulders in apology, “Another time maybe?” and Mycroft tried to quell a pang of disappointment as he padded off back down the path. He’d probably never see him again, and he’d never even given him that thank you.

“Is John your new boyfriend?” Sherlock looked up with sudden interest as he paused in the act of scarping mud into the jar.

“Oh do shut up Sherlock”, Mycroft snapped, annoyed at himself rather than the child desecrating graves at his feet, that he lacked the easy manners and social skills that John so obviously had in abundance.

“Only I hope not, cause I don’t want to see all that smooching and kissing stuff….not like you did with that spotty one at New Year…urgh!” Sherlock set his small mouth in a moue of disgust at the thought.

To Mycroft’s horror John turned around, obviously still close enough to catch Sherlock’s rather loud proclamation, carried on the air by a lull in the downpour. He grinned and walked backwards, speaking to Sherlock but with his eyes fixed firm and unwavering on Mycroft.

“Yeah well kid…don’t knock it till you’ve tried it….you’ll be doing it yourself when you’re older”.

“Urgh….that’s disgusting, no I won’t”. Sherlock protested, taking another harsh stab at the sloppy mud. Mycroft winced as droplets of filthy water speckled his face brown.

“Later Sherlock…Mycroft”, John offered them a crisp salute which made Sherlock dissolve into giggles as he turned away properly then, and disappeared into the dry, warm confines of a rusty old Ford Fiesta. Mycroft watched it out of sight, memorising colour (Maroon), model (1600 Ghia), and number plate (PJS 274Y), for reasons that he scarcely dare admit, and definitely not for the purposes of running it through the DVLA database (Illegally) to find John’s home address. Just so he’d know, not because he _fancied_ him or anything. He went to state school for god’s sake, probably took drugs or smoked, and drank cider in the park on the weekend with his friends. Mycroft didn’t have friends, preferring what he liked to call, useful future connections instead. Oddly enough, that didn’t seem quite so clever or appealing right now. John on the other hand was normal, doing all the normal teenage things that Mycroft never, ever did. And would he even want to? Maybe, he admitted, if John were there.

Sherlock sneezed loudly, once, twice, three times, “ACHOO!”

Mycroft sighed, hoping he had enough cash for the taxi fare, and that mummy wouldn’t be too cross they’d only been gone half an hour.

~*~

“You don’t go to school round here”. John munched happily on a bag of Quavers and reached across to offer him one. Mycroft waved him off and shook his head, not quite able to tell if it was a question or a statement. He’d best just treat it as both.

“No…we’re private…St Peter’s…I board, Sherlock’s a day pupil at the lower school until he’s ten”.

“Hmm….”, John considered this, and Mycroft steeled himself for resentment or ridicule for the ridiculous trappings of privilege, and surprisingly got neither. “Nice…I pass it on the way to my gran’s…they mostly look like twats….but you don’t”, John added with a pleasing little flush which crept up his neck, mottled pink at the delivery of this rather clumsy compliment. Mycroft found it all rather endearing.

“Kind of you to say so…I think…”.

“Yeah well, I expect you get enough shit for being called Mycroft…seemed a bit wrong to take the piss”.

They were sitting on a bench in the park outside the churchyard where Mycroft had gone on the off-chance, same day same time, hoping that same blond boy would be standing there. Evidently John had been thinking the same. Mummy had been quite cheerful today, almost back to her normal self, despite the fact that Sherlock still had a vicious cold and had been ill in bed since the previous weekend. Mycroft had his suspicions he was milking it for sympathy now, mummy did always dote so when they were unwell. She’d been doubly pleased to find out that he’d ‘met someone’, and of course Sherlock had only been too eager to spill the beans as it were.

Rotten little sneak.

(“He wears _jeans_ mummy…and he’s got really short spiky hair, and Mycroft was giving him all the lovey- dovey heart eyes…but he was nice…and he got me out of the tree cause Mycroft was just _useless_ ”).

Jeans, yes. Mycroft glanced down at the denim clad thigh mere inches from his own, as John sat, legs spread slightly in that way men do to ‘for ball room’ apparently, but Mycroft just found plain rude. Until now.

“I never know what to say”, said John, and Mycroft felt an anxious pang. What did he mean by that? Was he boring? Was he weird? Or was he just such appalling company that the other boy regretted meeting him here? Self-doubt was another thing he’d never been accustomed to, which made John Watson either the best, or the very worst thing that had happened to him. It was much too soon to tell. He shuffled uncomfortably on the wooden bench and wondered if he should widen the gap to a more appropriate distance.

“What do you say Mycroft…I mean… to your dad?” he nodded back towards the silent stone sentinels. Ah yes, John hadn’t been referring to him at all. Sentiment, no wonder he had mistaken him. Now to put him off even more with some further revelation of the Holmes family eccentricities.

“Daddy was a Humanist, he didn’t really believe in all this nonsense”, Mycroft answered, sardonically. But John looked back rather blankly and Mycroft stumbled on, “All this, was for mummy’s sake really, he would applaud the lack of mawkish fawning on my part, believe me. And really, what’s the point? He’s gone”.

“Fuck that’s bleak mate”, said John in a low, disbelieving tone.

“No not really”, he blundered on, too far down the rabbit hole to stop now, “When you think about it, it’s actually a quite pragmatic way to think…you don’t leave your loved ones with all this residual guilt about how they have to live up to your example so _you_ won’t be disappointed. Not when there is no _you_  anymore to disappoint”.

Bugger, John thought he was a freak now, probably, and up until now he’d almost passed for normal, but instead John looked thoughtful, and standing up suddenly, a shower of bright orange Quaver dust scattering about on the breeze, he signalled to Mycroft, pointing the way back towards the graveyard, “Come on then genius, I’ll give it a go, follow me”.

“I still wasn’t ready for this, you know?” John said, standing by him on the path again, “Two and a half years it took…and I get what you mean, really I do, and I don’t really hate him, I’m angry more than anything…I can’t be the man he wanted me to be…so why, if what you say is true, that he’s not there, doesn’t care, isn’t ever going to hear this…why do I still feel like such a fucking disappointment?” John looked at him hopefully, as if he, somehow would be able to provide the answer.

Mycroft wasn’t ready for this, a notion so intangible as grief was really beyond his realm of comfort, but he tried, nonetheless, and placed a placatory arm around John’s shoulders as they stepped a little closer together. John for his part said nothing thank god, just rested a grateful head against him, heavy and warm, the light scent of coconut that drifted on the air so incongruous with the oncoming chill of winter, the bare trees and grey clouded skies.

“I never ever want to stand here again”, John said finally, “Saying stupid words that he just won’t hear”.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have said anything, let John go on believing that his prayers would be answered and that everything he’d wished to say in life he could say here now, and be heard. But life didn’t work like that that.

There were no miracles, and no-one ever came back.

Not from this.

“Fuck it”, John said suddenly, the words vibrating strangely down Mycroft’s chest, “I promised him you know, promised I wouldn’t do this anymore, but this is my life right, that’s what you’re saying? What happens now is up to us, clean slate, no baggage and shit from the past?”

He had a gleam in his eye, and he’d turned to face him, hands clutched in the front of Mycroft’s navy-blue pea-coat, as he shivered slightly in his own worn denim and a ratty old knitted scarf. His nose was red, and there was dust on his eyelashes, Mycroft thought, a little cross-eyed as the face came nearer, so close now he could feel John’s warm cheese-scented breath on the side of his face and neck. He closed his eyes, willing his arms to cooperate and sighed in relief as brain caught up with motor skills as his hands came to a natural rest against the smaller boys waist.

It was glorious. Lips that had looked so dry and rough were soft and sweet against his mouth. A slight press, that was all at first, then again and again, pausing for longer each time until someone thank god had the foresight to tilt their head just a little to the side. There was so much breath and spit, teeth clicking awkwardly and a slightly startled gasp at the first intrusion of tongue, but they muddled along well enough until suddenly it clicked and they were gasping and panting until John pulled back and they realised the setting was perhaps a little inappropriate.

“Well that was a first”, he panted, still breathless , glancing around in guilt, half expecting the ground-staff to appear at any moment scandalised and irate for such indecency amongst the dearly dead beloved.

“First?”, John stepped back surprised, “I thought…You’re brother said….the spotty one? New Year?”

“Ah”, said Mycroft, “That would be Eloise, daughter of my father’s business partner, Nigel Green”.

“Shit…You mean you’re not?....Oh god Mycroft I’m sorry, I thought you were….you know….gay?”

John was beet-red now, chewing on the skin of his lip again clearly mortified at the thought such advances were unwanted. And much as he’d wanted to feel it, that special spark, that clench in the gut, it hadn’t really been there. Not this time.

“Sherlock is eight years old”, said Mycroft, choosing to ignore the presumption for now, true though it may have been, “He neither knows nor cares that there might be a difference. Boyfriend, girlfriend, it’s all the same to him….Rather marvellous don’t you think?”

Until life comes along to rudely disabuse him with a swift, sharp kick in the head.

“I still don’t get it…did I just fuck this up, or did you actually like what we just did?”

"It’s all fine John, no matter what your father said. If you take anything away from whatever this is, at least remember that….and yes…in case it wasn’t obvious…I did like it… quite a lot, very much so, in fact”.

But something in the moment had broken, and neither of them had to say it. John had had a point to prove, to himself, to his father and maybe even to Mycroft in a way, and he had done just that, quite pleasantly in fact. And nice though it was, it wasn’t quite enough to build any sort of future on for either of them, now was it?

~*~

Mycroft never saw him again, not in that sense anyway. He caught the odd glimpse in the churchyard from time to time, but there wasn’t a real reason to go there anymore, not for him. One time, a few years later when out with his boyfriend, an actual coffee date this time, John was there, laughing and joking the centre of attention in a large group of Uni kids, with his arm around the shoulders of a rather pretty blonde girl. They caught each other’s eye for a second and nodded in silent acknowledgement, but neither spoke. Old habits die hard he guessed, and smiled.

~*~

Mycroft Holmes was a very important man. Or so he’d been reliably informed. Still, that didn’t stop your little brother from being the eternal bane of your middle-aged existence. Some things were destined to never change.

“What the hell has he gone and done now”, he sighed, exasperated, “No….don’t tell me…he’s already succeeded in razing Baker Street down to the ground? I fully expect to find a pile of smouldering ashes…and Mrs Hudson in the middle of Armageddon with a pot of tea and some freshly baked cake. Do remind me…did we offer her danger money when Sherlock moved in? If not we ought to, that woman really is a saint”.

He shuffled some papers, irritated at the interruption and looked up in annoyance when his outburst failed to provoke an appropriate placating response.

“Not quite sir”, said Anthea (if that was her name this week), “He’s actually gone and found himself a flatmate sir, so I ran him through the system for you, thought you might like to know what we found”.

“Oh god, I do hope it’s not another of his junkie University friends, or that deplorable waste of oxygen, Victor Trevor”.

“No sir, he’s older sir, an Afghanistan veteran, recently invalided home…a Doctor John Watson, formerly Captain…would you like him brought in?”

“Perhaps just a quiet word will suffice…I’m sure he’ll be very…amenable”.

“If you’re sure sir”.

“You never know Anthea…this soldier fellow could be the making of my brother….or make him worse than ever…but I suppose only time will tell”.

Anthea nodded, and briskly departed, off to commandeer a scary black car which he was sure John would see through in a minute. Mycroft sighed, his eyes falling on the folded umbrella in the bottom of the coat-stand, as his mind drifted back to a very rainy autumn day and a funeral . It was the same one, Uncle Rudy’s, he’d kept it all this time, gave himself over to sentiment for once, and the memory of a boy, head bowed and dejected, loving and hating in equal measure the man in the grave beneath his feet.

John Watson had had quite the journey since then.

The wheel turns and nothing ever changes.

This was all going to be very interesting indeed.


End file.
